


Anything, anyone

by Dicax_Asina



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Arthur is a poor confused outlaw dad, F/M, Isaac survives the robbery, You come along & decide to help out, might write more for this or leave it at just a oneshot, pre-blackwater, short fluff, very slight angst, we shall see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2020-05-14 03:15:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 16,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19264813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dicax_Asina/pseuds/Dicax_Asina
Summary: ❝What the hell is that thing doing here, Arthur?❞❝His name is Isaac. And...he's my son. ❞[Pre-Blackwater AU]In which you, a young woman that has just recently joined the Van Der Linde Gang, witness Arthur Morgan bring in a child and claim it's his.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of 'what if Isaac had survived' struck me out of nowhere, and I knew I just HAD to write something for it. Do you think I should make this a longer series or just leave it at this? I'm a bit tempted to write more about papa Morgan, maybe with some timeskips to when Isaac is older included. Thoughts?

You've been here for a month, maybe two. Who knows, you've lost count. 

Well, not lost count per se — Hosea, a member of the Van der Linde gang you've grown more trusting towards, is like a clockwork and calendar all at the same time, he knows what day and time it is, and thus so do you. But you cannot for the life of you remember when the assemblage of outlaws have found you and offered you a home.

Regardless, you'd have to be considered blind to not notice one thing.

The gang leader's right hand man, Arthur Morgan, is barely around. At first you figure it's just him fulfilling his duty as an enforcer, but upon accidentally overhearing miss Grimshaw scold him and Dutch loudly remarking that he had stopped contributing as much as before, you're sure something is off.

Arthur Morgan, the man you're far too intimidated by to even dare approach, storms off in the crack of dawn every day and returns just in time for Pearson's dinner stew, usually brings some meat with him.

But there's no way in hell he's out that long for one deer. 

He's hiding something, but unfortunately, none of the other girls in camp seem to be any wiser on the matter than you are. Anyone in camp doesn't, actually.

Both Grimshaw and Dutch receive nothing but apologies and promises of improvement as an answer, but Arthur never changes. And yet, he looks more and more tired by the day, something is weighing down on him.

But that is not for you to worry about. If he falls apart, there is very little someone like you (alternatively, someone that is pretty much an outsider still) can do.

You sigh, stretch your limbs as you sit at the campfire. The hot New Austin air has turned chilly along with the arrival of the evening, you'd have it no other way. It's a welcome change, and you feel quite at ease when all is quiet in camp and you're stitching away at the hole in mister MacGuire's shirt. The clumsy idiot, he brings in the most clothes that need fixing, but just enough laughs to make up for it.

You perk up when the thundering of hooves can be heard in the distance. Arthur Morgan is returning, about time. He's hit a new low this once, it's well past midnight.

When he rides into camp, he's not carrying a deer. There are no rabbits attached to his saddle, the clinking of stolen belt buckles and rings is not to be heard.

There will be consequences when the morning comes, you realize, not only from Grimshaw and Dutch, but from almost everyone.

Arthur's empty-handed. 

Save from a bundle of blankets he clutches close to his chest. A bundle of blankets that starts crying the moment he dismounts.

Oh, Christ. A child?

Has Arthur Morgan brought an infant into camp?

He shushes the baby, tries to gently rock it to get it to stop from crying.

He fails, miserably so.

"Abigail, can you please get Jack to shut it?" Bill Williamson bellows dryly, Arthur freezes.

"It ain't Jack." Abigail responds on a similar tone, but with a raspy voice. She's sick, you remember. John jumps to her defense, tells Williamson to give it a rest and leave her be.

"Well it sure as hell ain't Swanson screamin' his lungs out, for Chrissakes! Shut 'im up!" Another voice chimes in, though you can't identify it.

A mess of voices starts after that, some confused, some angry, some annoyed, some accusing. 

"What's with all the damn ruckus?" 

By tone and timbre, you know it's Dutch. He's pulled aside the flaps of his tent and stares outside with a look that could kill.

All is silent.

Aside from the baby Arthur's still holding. The enforcer looks up in both fear and shame at his leader, you feel the air thicken.

"What the hell is that thing doing here, Arthur?"

"His name is Isaac." He clarifies, takes a step closer to camp. The anxiety from a moment ago is washed away, he's a stellar actor. "And...he's my son."

You could cut through the tension in the air with a cheese knife if you'd have one on you.

"Don't be ridiculous, Arthur."

"I ain't." Arthur insists over the shrill crying of the child in his arms. 

Dutch sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose. "I am not in the mood for this." An annoyed groan rumbles in the gang leader's throat, he then waves his hand dismissively. "Get it to shut up, we'll talk in the morning."

Arthur nods at that, then makes a beeline for his tent with wide steps. He pulls down the flaps behind him, and then he's out of sight.

Unfortunately however, not out of earshot.

The poor child doesn't stop crying, after a few minutes, you start fearing it will cough its vocal chords up if it goes on for much longer.

"Abigail, go help him shut the little pest's mouth!" One of the men bellows, then sighs. "Just when I thought Jack was over with."

She doesn't protest, gets up. She's wobbly from her fever, the poor thing. 

A thought pops up in your mind. Maybe you should take over, at least this once. Help Abigail get some much needed rest, especially since she has been nothing but kind to you.

You're on your feet before you know it, Sean's shirt lays forgotten on the tree stump you'd been sitting on. You give Abigail a soft smile, then gesture for her to sit down.

She smiles back tiredly, but thankfully.

With that, you reluctantly pad towards Arthur's caravan, listening as the crying increases in volume.

"Arth— Mister Morgan? May I come in?"

You fear he doesn't hear you over the crying, and after a wait of ten seconds, you're sure that's the case.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, make the wean shut it's damn gob!" Sean MacGuire slurs from the periphery of the camp, hungover and tired. You suppose that's enough encouragement, you push the flaps aside and enter, they fall closed behind you.

Arthur sits on his cot, looking genuinely, utterly terrified as he clutches the child close to his chest and tries to rock him softly. Poor bastard.

He glances up at you like a startled deer, you can swear there's traces of tears in the corners of his eyes. You raise your palms to prove you've come with good intentions.

He straightens up as you approach.

"Here, can I..." You place your hand under the baby's head, look at Arthur for permission. It's clear he doesn't trust you much, if at all, but you hope honesty can convince him otherwise. "I'm not gonna hurt him, I promise."

Arthur swallows, then loosens his grip on the child to let you take it out of his arms. You turn the baby around to lay on its side on your forearm, start rocking it slowly. The ill-fated thing, it must be so utterly terrified. New surroundings, new people, no mother, and all of that at the fragile age you approximate to be roughly six months. Both him and the child smell like burnt wood.

You begin humming something, whatever comes to mind first, and it only takes a few minutes from there for the crying to die down.

Arthur is silent, but stares at you like you're some kind of godsend or wizard. 

"Don't worry." You whisper, not enough to wake the baby, barely enough for him to hear you. "It's not magic."

You approach his cot, slowly sit down on it next to him. Your shoulder bumps his, you lift the child slowly.

"Here, take him." You instruct. "I'll show you."

Arthur shies away minutely, he looks at the child almost fearfully. "I— I ain't—" He swallows thickly. "Don't wanna hurt him."

You didn't ever think you'd get to see Arthur Morgan this meek and shaken up, but here you are. You wonder how he's managed to hide his child for a good six months, and why he has taken responsibility only now. And you dread dwell on the whys and hows for too long.

"Nonsense." You whisper, then shift Isaac so that he only lays on one of your arms. With your free hand, you grasp Arthur's wrist and adjust its position softly. His skin is rough, calloused after many years of killing and fighting, he's a survivor in a dog eat dog world. You can understand why he deems himself incapable of gentleness, but excuses are something he can't afford. 

"That's it." You say as you instruct him to splay the fingers of one of his hands, then softly lay Isaac in his hold. The baby's cheek rests in Arthur's palm, the rest of its small body on both his crossed forearms. The man holds him like he's made of porcelain. If he weren't such a good and steady shot, you fear his arms might've started shaking. "If he starts crying again, try laying him on his stomach or side, maybe hum something or talk to him. For food, try mixing some oatmeal with water."

Arthur nods. He seems to soak up information so greedily that you can't believe you'd deemed him dull before. 

"'N where do I—" Words seem to be difficult for him when he's overwhelmed, you now understand why he stays silent most of the time. "Jack has a baby bed." Arthur finally explains.

Good point. You start looking around, your eyes land on a jacket he's draped on a chair.

You snatch the clothing article, flip it inside out, then start rolling it up. Arthur watches curiously as you set the improvised pillow on his cot, then curve it into a semicircle. 

"Should do for now." You gesture for Arthur to set Isaac on it. He follows your instructions, as slow and careful as it gets. You have to hold back a soft smile at the sight.

He rubs his face once Isaac cuddles further into the rolled up jacket, sighs tiredly.

"Thank you." Arthur whispers, and you pat his shoulder in response. He sounds like he needs rest, plenty of it.

"Of course." With that, you make your leave, lifting the flaps to step outside.

"And uh...miss (l/n), ain't it?"

You glance at him over your shoulder and raise a brow.

Arthur hesitates, then shakes his head. "Nothin'. Have a good night's sleep."

You chuckle silently. "You'll need some more than I do."

Arthur scratches the back of his neck, hums affirmatively before retreating to his tent.

When you pass by his tent the next day, bright and early, you're find him sleeping on the ground on his bedroll, one hand reaching up on his cot to hold onto Isaac's little arm.


	2. Chapter 2

"What you've done is enough, Arthur." Dutch's voice is both boiling with anger and cold as ice, you can understand why it is met with obedience from most. He has a way with words and tonality that leaves no room for disagreements, Dutch van der Linde is as imposing as it gets. "Get rid of it."

You have to hold back a flinch at the harshness of his words, and you're not even inside the gang leader's tent, unlike poor Arthur. The whole camp is quiet, even Pearson has stopped chopping vegetables to listen in on the rather intense conversation between the gang leader and his enforcer.

"It don't work like that. You know it don't, Dutch." Arthur disagrees, much more calmly than the older man. You can hear out the repressed anger and frustration in his voice, you don't want to imagine what he's been through. "Isaac is my responsibility now."

"That stray child ain't nothin'! Not to me, to you, or anyone in this gang." Dutch exhales, but somehow it sounds eerily similar to a growl. "Get. It. Outta. Here."

"How come you're acceptin' Jack, but Isaac is where you draw the line?"

A pause follows.

"Jack has a mother, unlike that 'son' of yours. D'you see John sittin' round here and cradlin' a child all day? No, because that's Abigail's job, Arthur."

"An' John's job is to run for the hills when he feels like it?" It's a hybrid between a quip and an argument. Part of you is glad Arthur won't back down. "C'mon Dutch. You ain't like this."

"You want another responsibility? You've barely been showin' your damn face 'round here for the past six mo—" Dutch's voice stops suddenly, it sounds like he's experiencing a moment of epiphany. "How old is that child of yours?"

Arthur sighs audibly. You've never seen Dutch treat him with such harshness, and the look on the fellow gang members' faces does nothing but confirm it.

You're tempted to hear the answer, but Isaac starts crying before you can hope to do so. You rush to Arthur's tent almost out of instinct and pick up the baby. Judging by the way he's screaming, the little boy must be hungry. You crumble up some oatmeal cookies in your fist, then put them into one of Pearson's bowls. Water is added on top, and you stir it for a minute or two, trying to simultaneously shush Isaac.

It's not easy, but you remember bitterly that you've been in many similar instances before. Before your—

"Dutch, please, be rational 'bout this!" You hear stomping steps, two pairs, coming closer and closer to Arthur's tent.

"You've been hidin' this child for six damn months!" The gang leader shouts, as if to shame him in front of the whole camp. Scratch that, you're sure that's his purpose.

"I don't care what ya do, Arthur." Dutch sounds so calm that it's terrifying in the most unsettling of ways. "But I can't let you be both mother 'n father to some whore's brat! This camp needs you. Are you gonna throw us all away for—..." Dutch whirls around, finds Isaac with his gaze, and scoffs. "For this thing?"

"O' course I ain't and you know it. I can—"

It's both terrifying and sad to think about how little you hesitate. Your decision is not well thought through, but you feel like you must do whatever is in your power to remedy the situation. "I'll help." You speak up. Dutch looks at you like you've just spit in his eye. Arthur's gaze holds nothing but shock that melts into thankfulness. "I can take up everything that Arthur's too busy to do, I—"

Your voice falters, you draw in a breath.

Dutch smiles, though his eyes don't show it. His tones are honeyed when he speaks to you, it unsettles you. "Don't be ridiculous now, miss (l/n). It ain't even your child."

"Doesn't matter." You respond. "If I can help, I'll do it."

Dutch wants to have a say in the matter, you can tell by the way he opens his mouth in the slightest but the words get stuck in his throat. Dutch sighs to cover it up, then takes a hold of his chin as he looks back and forth between you and and a hungry Isaac that reaches out with grabby hands towards the plate of the oatmeal porridge you've improvised. 

The gang leader doesn't like the situation one bit, it's clear as day, but he finally hums and nods.

"Very well, then." He turns around on his heels, dust whirls up around his feet. "John, Arthur, Micah, Bill. Get ready, we got a train to rob today. I want you on your horses before sunrise, we ain't got time to lose."

"Hold on, now, Dutch, Isaac's—"

"Do you see John complainin', Arthur? No." Dutch pats his enforcer's shoulder with an air of finality. "Now go on. Like I said, no time to lose, son."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"I'm real sorry, (y/n)." Arthur looks back and forth between you and Isaac, who is now asleep on his cot once again. The outlaw's dressed all in black, bandana around his neck, rifles strapped to his back. Arthur has a duty to fulfill, as much as he seems to dislike it at that moment. "N thank you. A lot."

"Nothing to be sorry for." You smile softly, Arthur hangs onto it like he needs it. "It's only natural to help as much as I can. Isaac doesn't— I don't know why Dutch—" You sigh, pinch the bridge of your nose before lowering your voice. "I've only been here for a month, but this doesn't feel like the man that gave me a home."

Arthur shakes his head. "He's a good man, I reckon he's just goin' through somethin' right now. Give 'im a few weeks and he'll be better. Just have faith." 

Arthur readjusts his gun-belt when Williamson whistles outside his tent. "C'mon now, momma Morgan, there's time for coddlin' later!"

You give Arthur a wry smile before he exits, you hope it gets the encouragement you want to (but don't dare) say to him across.


	3. Chapter 3

They return with tiredness etched into their expression and putrid hate in their eyes. Dutch looks the most frightening, imposing as always, riding ahead in front of the group. The men are covered in blood (both their own and their victims'), dust, and sweat.

You don't notice the sharp glances Arthur receives right away, but they're there. You can feel them.

You've brought Isaac outside to feed him, he sits on your lap, nibbling on his fingers like he can feel the tension as well. You know it's serious if even a baby can sense something is wrong.

"Maybe if Arthur hadn't been so busy bein' a mommy to some whore's child, we coulda set up the dynamite on time!" Davey Callander barks, it sounds so low and animalistic that you for a second fear a dog has walked into camp and started talking.

But no. It's just Davey, with Mac trotting up behind him.

The sight promises trouble.

Arthur frowns and squares his shoulders as he jumps off his horse and darts towards the brothers. Scratch the dog comparison, they all look like roosters puffing up their feathers, ready to gouge each-other's eyes out. It's terrifying to witness, you turn Isaac towards yourself so that he can't see them. Arthur clenches his fists, his chin is raised when he talks to Mac. "It ain't my fault Williamson butchered the—"

"Gentlemen." Dutch appears almost out of nowhere, places one hand on each of their chests, pries Davey, Mac and Arthur apart slowly but firmly. "Gentlemen. Ain't anyone's fault things was the way they was, save for that damn conductor's."

Mac has a retort on the tip of his tongue, Dutch cuts him off by nodding towards the man's tent. "Mister Callander, you and your brother must be tired by now." Dutch turns towards the rest of the men with an air of calmness and superiority. "All of you must be. Get some rest, men, this ain't over."

Both Arthur and some others sigh, but listen to what Dutch says. It's terrifying to witness how much control one person has over the men, you cannot imagine how empowering it must feel. All that raw power at one's fingertips, ready to execute anything that is ordered.

Arthur finds you with his gaze, a small smile forms on his lips. Tiredly, with languid, but wide steps, he makes his way past his leader, in your direction.

Dutch grabs Arthur's arm with force and firmness, the enforcer stops dead in his tracks. "A word with you, Arthur?" Dutch's tone is different and honeyed no more, he speaks through a clenched jaw.

Arthur frowns, but accepts with a plain nod.

"We need you here, Arthur. With us." Dutch begins his speech as he drags the man towards the periphery of the camp. "You ain't been nothin' but absent ever since that—"

You don't get to hear much more, Isaac starts to mess around with the food inside the bowl. He clumsily smears it over his own face with his little hands, then grins at you widely.

You sigh, but can't hold back a small amused sigh of your own.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Isaac is already asleep when Arthur returns. Abigail and Pearson have helped you build a provisionary baby bed out of old wooden crates and blankets, which Isaac seems to like, at least to some extent.

The enforcer looks bigger even when he ducks under the leather flaps of his tent to step inside. The blood on his face and hands does his intimidating aura no favors.

"How're you feeling?" You speak up, though your tone remains quiet. You'd hate waking up Isaac.

Arthur blinks like he can't quite believe you've just asked him that. He takes a second to process the question, until a gentle smile settles on his lips.

Arthur shakes his head, gaze downcast. "Don'tcha worry 'bout me, I've taken far worse than this."

You look at him like you care, he thinks he could get used to something like that. "Doesn't make it any more pleasant, though, does it?"

He smirks at your knowing gaze, shrugs his shoulders as if he can't be bothered to come up with a response worthy of your observation. It's true — he can't.

"Wanted to...thank ya. Again. For takin' care of Isaac today." Arthur frowns, words don't come easy to him when he's saying nice things. But he tries. You can appreciate the intention. "It...It's— You're kind."

You shake your head, his frown deepens. How could you be in dispute about something so true?

How can a woman that has nothing to do with him and offers to take care of his child not be kind?

You give him an explanation as you walk towards him and pick up a dampened rag you've set on his bedside table.

"I'm just doing what I think is right. He's— Well, I don't know the whole story, but I don't think your son deserves what he receives from Dutch. No child does." You put your hand on his shoulder, squeeze it softly. Blood stains your palm, but you don't let your expression shift into one of repulsion.

You figure Arthur has been treated with enough of it already.

"You should clean up a little, mister Morgan." You quip and drop the rag in his hands. Almost by command, he unfolds it and runs it over his weathered visage with rough movements, as if he can't quite stand the thought of his own face. He bunches up the fabric in his fist once he's done.

A spot on his left temple is still smudged with blood.

You make a sign towards your own face and where the stain roughly is, giggle when he scrubs more furiously. Only a smidge too low, unfortunately.

You roll your eyes, however playfully, and Arthur finds that it's a sight he could see himself smiling at. The rag is taken out of his hands with a professional movement, it's a reminder of how good of a thief you are. Your other palm comes to rest on his jaw as you angle his face downwards. Arthur closes his eyes, the apples of his cheeks turn a slight, barely visible red when you exhale more sharply in amusement.

The blood stain is gone, and you for a second fear he's figuratively swallowed his heart. He looks the part.

"There." You say with an air of finality as the rag is pressed into his hand again.

Arthur is left speechless, watching you like a blind man that's seeing for the first time. You pass by him and exit his tent.

"Take care, Arthur." You give him one last glance over your shoulder, he nods almost solemnly, but can't bite back a small, gentle grin once you're out of sight.


	4. Chapter 4

Days go by like raindrops dripping in a puddle, they've gathered and spilled over the edge before you know it. Isaac has settled in, Dutch has grown to tolerate him.

Arthur tries his best, too. He really does.

You can understand that being an outlaw and a responsible father rarely go hand in hand, if at all, so his effort means the world to you. To his son too, you think. Little Isaac just doesn't know it yet.

You've grown quite attached to Arthur's son too, though you don't quite want to admit it. Abigail has teased you a good few times that you've taken the safest and quickest route into Arthur's heart, but you beg to differ.

Not like he'd want anything to do with you, save for the fact that you're practically a nanny to his child.

Part of you expects him to stop treating you so kindly once Isaac doesn't need your help anymore, but you dread to think about that day. Why should you? It's years away. Maybe one of the three of you will end up dead by then, what is the point in trying to predict the unpredictable?

None. None at all.

So when you're sat in the periphery of camp one morning, Isaac on your lap, one of Williamson's ripped pair of jeans in your hands, the last thing you expect is someone to disturb the makeshift idyll. 

A shadow shields you from the late morning sun, Isaac squeaks with joy at the sight you haven't let yourself look at just yet. The aura is familiar, you don't have to glance up from the stitches you're making to know who it is.

"Mister Morgan." You greet but don't take your eyes off the needle for even a second. The smile on your face can be heard in your voice, your chest feels tight, but in a good way. 

You finally muster the courage to look at him when he bows down to scoop Isaac out of your arms, then props him against his side with one hand. The sun shines from behind the both of them, it catches both in Arthur's and Isaac's similarly colored hair. The both of them appear golden in the morning sun, and the outlaw looks at his child as if the little boy actually is. Your smile widens, you can't help it.

Arthur notices, his loving expression turns slightly playful.

"I thought we both agreed on skippin' formalities miss (l/n)—" His voice catches in his throat when he realizes he's committed the same mistake as you.

A giggle is impossible to suppress.

"The boy behavin' himself?" He changes the subject, you nod. Isaac is a shy little thing, dislikes loud sounds above all else, and that includes his own cries. It's a blessing.

To say he's well-behaved is an understatement.

"Of course." You respond with a gentle, happy lilt to your voice. "He's been very good."

Arthur readjusts his hold on Isaac, who looks at him with big, curious dark eyes as he gnaws on his small fingers. 

"Good, 'cause I been, uh..." Arthur scratches the nape of his neck with his free hand, his expression turns somehow shy. You're rendered speechless, you feel like you've seen something you weren't allowed to. "I been...thinkin'."

Arthur Morgan and reluctance have never mixed before.

"I been thinkin' bout how you've been— well, very helpful these past few weeks. To me, 'n to the boy. I— I appreciate it."

You smile, set Williamson's jeans aside as you move to stand in front of Arthur. "Like I said, mist— Arthur. You don't need to thank me, really, all I did was just lend a helping hand when it was needed. I don't want a pedestal for that."

"I'm afraid I ain't able to afford one anyhow, but, uh..." Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose and Isaac stops chewing on his fingers to stare at his father almost cluelessly. "I jus' wanted to maybe take ya out somewhere, as a thank you? I figured camp must get borin' after a while, so I—" An outlaw, tripping over his own words? You never thought you'd see the day when that happened, and yet you find yourself entranced by it. "There's a nice lil' place b'side the Montana river. I could, I mean, we could— If you want to, o'course—"

As lovable and adorable as he is at that moment, you don't want to prolong his word-stumbling any longer. You reckon he's feeling embarrassed enough already, you won't add to it.

"I'd love to tag along." You say truthfully and Arthur smiles in relief. He points behind himself, towards the other side of camp, where his horse is hitched. 

"Good, I— the horse is ready. 'N I talked to miss Grimshaw, so don't worry 'bout that. She said she can spare ya for an hour, but I reckon two won't be a problem either."

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You hold Isaac close as Arthur spreads his bedroll over the grass. You wonder if he's been thinking about doing this for a long time or if the idea's just stricken him a mere few hours ago. Regardless of that, you're thankful for it.

Isaac busies himself by bunching up the fabric of your shirt in his little fists, you pat his back and rock him softly.

The place Arthur's picked is arcadian, in the shadow of a big tree near the river. The most minute rays of sunlight that manage to break through the leaves warm your skin, the river comes with the smallest of breezes as a garnish.

You pad towards him when the outlaw motions for you to do so, smile when you're in front of him. You'd never thought Arthur Morgan could prove to be this thoughtful.

You settle down on the bedroll, Isaac in your lap, and his father sits down beside you. A gap of respect remains between the two of you, it's surprising that he cares so much about boundaries now when he cares so little about robbing and killing in cold blood.

"This place is very pretty." You speak up, a pocket-sized, but self-satisfied smile tugs on Arthur's lips.

"'M glad you like it." Arthur says. "Must be maddenin' to spend all that time around so many people, so I figured this was...well, if you woulda liked a dress more, then I can get you one o' those too."

You chuckle, he looks at you in surprise.

"Like I said, Arthur. This is enough of a thank you." You readjust your hold on Isaac, but Arthur takes him from your arms into his own with a gentleness that's unexpected. "You're doing far more than Marston just by helping me out whenever you can with Isaac."

"Marston ain't exactly fierce competition." Arthur argues, and the both of you snicker at that. His smile settles suddenly, it shifts into something more melancholic. "And camp ain't a place to raise a kid neither."

Unfortunately, you're inclined to agree. You wonder if he's grown up with the gang, or when exactly he's even joined Dutch. As far as the whispers around camp have helped you figure out, it's at least fifteen years.

"You didn't have a choice." You respond. "And I think growing up in camp is better than not growing up at all."

Arthur hums thoughtfully, then looks down at Isaac in surprise when he lets out a tiny yawn. Slowly and ever so demurely, he cups his huge hand around the back of his child's head, coaxes the boy to lay on his torso. 

The outlaw leans back, props himself on his elbows to accommodate Isaac. His moves are still reluctant, and you think they might remain so for years. Arthur's hurt so much that he fears he's forgotten how to be affectionate, but he's also proved to be eager to relearn an ancient trait made new.

Isaac's eyes drift closed soon after, Arthur runs his thumb over the soft hair that has the same color as his.

"Wish his ma was still here." He speaks up out of nowhere. You tilt your head and look at him to let him know you're listening intently to whatever he needs to get off of his chest.

"Did you love her?" You ask.

Arthur smiles bitterly, shakes his head no. You hate yourself for finding some awful kind of relief in that.

"I didn't, but...she was kind. A good woman, still a kid, just nineteen. Didn't deserve the way she died." He frowns, lowers his hand until it rests on top of Isaac's small back, ever so careful not to put too much weight into any of his movements. You remember the night he rode in with his son, both of them smelling like burnt wood.

And you remember your daughter, merely five years old, lifeless in your bloodstained hold.

Perhaps Isaac can help you as much as you can help him and his father.


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur has his hands full with new jobs and responsibilities being hauled at him. Dutch is never satisfied, he's the kind of person that lives for the hunt, not for the result.

And you feel like it's a subtle punishment, too. Dutch wants to maintain his good person facade, but also show Arthur that stepping out of line is something he tolerates very little, if at all. So he puts him to work, much more than before, Arthur stays away weeks at a time. At one point, you move your own cot into his caravan so that you can cater to Isaac's needs more efficiently. No-one seems to have anything to say about that, fortunately.

There is nobleness to be found within Dutch's inhumane demands, however. A good chunk of what he unrightfully earns is given away to orphanages, beggars, and wherever else his Robin Hood-esque ideals drive him to donate.

You learn two very important things about Dutch van der Linde.

First, he runs on the feeling of successfulness. Second, the gang of outlaws he has raised based on his ideals is the safest ticket towards that.

The man may be slippery, self-absorbed and silver-tongued, but by god, he's smart. He's hammered loyalty into every gang member's head, something much more stable and reliable than money could ever hope to buy. Dutch has raised them, saved them, sheltered them, and in return, his grip on them is steel-like without them even knowing it.

Arthur Morgan unfortunately included.

So when Isaac is added to the mix, you can understand why Dutch is not particularly fond of him. Arthur, as opposed to John, wants to be a good father more than anything else. And it's that which clouds his blind loyalty and sobers up his senses.

Himself, Arthur Morgan can disregard. His son, not so much.

Arthur talks to you about how he's considered bringing his son into an orphanage, how he wonders if that childhood is better than what he can offer.

You beg to differ, you've spent your childhood in one.

Arthur listens to what you have to tell about the many horrors of a parent-less youth, he nods, understands. He's always eager to learn, so receptive of his surroundings that it leaves you wondering how he hasn't noticed Dutch's influence. 

But that talk is one of the few interactions you still have with Arthur in the upcoming weeks. He makes time for you when he returns to camp, always, unfortunately those instances are rare. More often than not, he finds you and Isaac asleep, and doesn't dare interfere with your slumber.

One time, while you're fast asleep, Jack starts crying, and disturbed by the noise, Isaac does too. Through tired, half-lidded eyes, you watch Arthur, barely arrived in camp, take his son in his arms easily, trying not to smudge his son's skin with the gunpowder that sticks to his calloused hands.

"Hey, easy now." Arthur whispers, moving to cradle his son to his chest. Isaac's sobs don't die down, you silently think it may have something to do with the noise Jack is creating. But you won't tell Arthur, not just yet. Part of you is curious to see him handling the situation. "Wouldn't wanna wake (y/n), would we?"

You stifle a giggle, successfully so. Arthur hasn't noticed you're awake yet — he's too focused on Isaac.

"Let's get ya somewhere quiet."

With that, Arthur leaves his caravan behind, carefully closing the leather flaps behind him so that the sound of them falling closed does not wake you.

You wait for a few seconds, then carefully slide out of your cot. You slip on your shoes, put on something over your chemise, just enough to make you withstand the chilly summer night air. Without Arthur taking notice, you follow him towards the periphery of camp, into the woods nearby.

He stops in his tracks when he finds a log. Arthur sits down on it then sets Isaac on his lap. He quickly cleans gunpowder off of one of his hands by wiping it on his black shirt. Reluctantly, he then reaches to cup he boy's face with one hand, wipes away his tears with his thumb. It's almost magical to witness what influence a calm presence can have on Isaac.

The child's sobs slowly turn into sniffs. Arthur begins talking with a voice so smooth and gentle it could be made of pure, melted sugar.

"I know, I know. Ain't been around much these past few weeks. You gotta know 'm real sorry." Arthur gives a weak smile, then watches as one of Isaac's tiny hands grabs a hold of his index finger. "Think y'can forgive me, kid?"

Silence settles over the two. Isaac looks at Arthur like he can't understand a word, but at the same time, with utmost solemnity. He's such a smart little thing, you believe he takes after his father.

The silence doesn't last long — all of a sudden, Isaac looks towards his father's left shoulder and squeaks in pleasant surprise, simultaneously reaches out with grabby hands. 

Confused, Arthur glances in that direction as well, then grins widely. With his right hand, he reaches towards his shoulder and picks something small up, holds it between his thumb and index. An insect.

"Ain't you got an eye for details?" Arthur tells Isaac with possibly the biggest grin you've ever seen on his face. With his free hand, he turns Isaac around so that the boy's back is against his torso. Arthur holds the insect in front of the two of them so that his son can have a closer look at it as well. "This one's a grasshopper."

Isaac responds with some gibberish that, if listened to with a lot of imagination, resembles the word 'grasshopper'.

Arthur chuckles softly, nods. "Yeah, somethin' like that."

He watches Isaac try to reach out towards the insect, then grabs a gentle hold of his son's wrist and guides his fingertips over the grasshopper's back.

Isaac produces a sound that contains both surprise and fascination, Arthur's smile stands unshaken.

"Cute little thing, ain't it? There's a lot of 'em around, and the small ones won't bite ya. You gotta hold 'em by their legs like this when you catch 'em, and you won't hurt 'em." Arthur talks like Isaac understands every word, your heart swells at the sight. "Used to love playin' with bugs when I was a kid, jus' a lil' bit older than you. But my favorite part was this:" Arthur sets the grasshopper on his knee, then watches it leap into the grass. Isaac giggles in surprise.

You don't know wether you should smile or shed a tear at what you've just seem, and you fear it might be both. That is, of course, until you step on a branch.

Both pairs of eyes dart towards you, equally quick and attentive. Arthur's definitely his father, no doubting it.

You rush to explain yourself.

"Found Isaac's bed empty." Your voice doesn't contain a trace of reproach. "And I figured his father might've shown his face around again."

"He has." Arthur answers with a lopsided smile, then shifts to create some space for you on the log as well. 

You approach the two, then sit down beside Arthur. Your knee touches his, but this time, neither of you pulls away. It's one of the rare times in which Arthur doesn't shy away from physical contact, you note. There's traces of gunpowder and perhaps even blood on his shirt and hands. "How'd it go?"

"Not too bad, got what Dutch wanted, in the end. Didn't all go according to plan, but it coulda been worse." 

You give his shoulder a soft pat, Arthur huffs softly.

"Good to see you return alive and well." You say. "The last thing the boy needs is to lose his father as well."

Arthur nods. "I missed—" His gaze lingers on you for a second, his voice catches in his throat, then he looks at the ground. "Isaac. And some peace 'n quiet too, I guess."

Judging by the lines under his eyes, Arthur hasn't slept much this week. You see that clearly, now that you're closer. Poor dear, you wonder what he's had to go through, and at the same time, you don't want to know.

"How long do you think you'll stay this time?" You ask, and Arthur shakes his head languidly. In his every motion, it's clear that he's drained of energy.

"That ain't up to me, I'm afraid."

You hum, nod. Arthur sighs, then smiles down at Isaac, who's looking at the both of you with big, brown, questioning eyes. You brush a hand over the boy's head, play with a tuft of his honey-colored hair.

"Have you considered leaving?" You ask out of nowhere, the words slip before you can stop them. "For Isaac?"

You can feel Arthur tense beside you in surprise.

"These people are my family just as much as him. Can't leave 'em behind, they need me."

You hum in understanding, then sigh. That is when you realize just how much Arthur Morgan's loyalty is worth.

"You should get some sleep."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took me so long to update! I’ve been outside my home country this past month and could barely get enough sleep, much less write. Thank you for being such patient angels♥️


	6. Chapter 6

You jolt awake from your spot on Arthur's cot when the tent flaps open.

You can hear a distant downpour and roll back your shoulders to wake yourself up properly. Dutch is standing at the entrance, looking at you with a sly smile. You feel your stomach churn.

"You don't happen to have seen Arthur, have you, miss (l/n)?"

You look downwards, at the spot on the carpet on top of which Arthur's bedroll usually rests. It's empty now. 

You shake your head.

"Haven't seen him since last night, when he arrived." You respond, then force yourself to sit up. Usually, you'd lay down for five minutes or a little more upon waking up, teetering back and forth between lucidity and slumber. Now that Dutch is present, however, your morning ritual is long forgotten. 

His expression remains coy, and somehow suspicious, as if he were some bloodhound sniffing out his prey.

"Surely, you would've noticed him leave the cot." He insists. 

You're confused until you realize what Dutch means. He has a burning suspicion there's more between you and Arthur than the shared care of Isaac — you're sorry to disappoint.

You can only dream of such things. A woman like you with Arthur Morgan?

"He sleeps in his bedroll, on the carpet, when I come over to take care of Isaac." You respond sincerely. A frown passes over Dutch's face, but it's as brief as a shadow — you can barley catch a glimpse of it before it's gone and his expression is neutral once more. "Why, he didn't tell you where he went?"

Dutch's smile never falters, he gives a nonchalant shrug. Behind it all, you can tell he feels that Arthur's former unwavering loyalty is now being threatened, though you have no idea by what exactly.

"I reckoned he might've told you." The gang leader admits, crossing his arms over his puffed out chest. He leans against Arthur's caravan, then fishes a cigar and a match out of his pocket. "Y'two've been gettin' quite close recently, haven'tcha?"

You dish out the best innocent, clueless smile you can muster. "Wouldn't exactly say that. I've barely gotten a chance to talk to him with all the time he spends outside camp."

Dutch hums, takes a drag from his cigar, then starts talking. Every word is a puff of smoke. "Coulda sworn you was lookin like a couple a' old friends when you returned from the woods gigglin' n' laughin' last night."

Shit.

"Isaac couldn't sleep because little Jack was crying." You begin your explanation, voice as smooth and as calm as ever. Years of pickpocketing are paying off. "We decided to take him into the woods, help him calm down a little."

"That so?"

You suppress the urge to swallow thickly. You will not be intimidated by—

"Somethin' goin' on here?"

Dutch turns around to look behind himself, and you glance at the silhouette over his shoulder. 

Arthur.

He looks back and forth between you and Dutch.

"Nothin' at all, just checkin' in on your son." His leader answers. "I noticed him 'n Jack was cryin' out their lungs last night."

Arthur backs down, scratches the nape of his neck sheepishly. "Sorry if he disturbed you."

Dutch laughs, pats Arthur's shoulder. "That's jus' children for ya, son. Ain't no trouble."

And with that, the gang leader leaves.

Tension fades from your shoulders, Arthur notices. His finesse for details must be hereditary. 

"Y'good?" He asks. There's red staining his right shoulder and hand, a bow is in the other. He must've been out hunting.

You give a nod. "Yeah, Dutch just surprised me, is all." You stand up from Arthur's cot, stretching your legs and smiling to yourself when you see him pull down the leather flaps of his tent, then hear him pad over to the chest of clothes. His back is turned towards you, both out of respect and, something he will never admit to, shyness. 

"Anything else planned for today?" You ask as you slip on some more presentable clothes. It strikes you that maybe Dutch wanted to find you still asleep to have you at your most vulnerable. "Another errand to run?"

"Guess y'could call it that." Arthur responds, buttoning up a fresh shirt. "Pearson 'n a few others reckon it's my turn to go shoppin' for supplies, I'm goin' to Blackwater. You?"

You can't help but chuckle. What did he think you have planned for today? A bank heist as soon as Isaac takes a nap? "Not much except for the typical motherly idyll."

A pause follows, accompanied by the rustling of fabric as the both of you continue getting dressed.

"You was a pocket thief before all o' this, ain't that so?" 

You respond with a dreamy, nostalgic smile. "Yeah."

Arthur reads others better than he gives himself credit for. He's finished changing, and has topped off his outfit with a simple vest. You're not far behind either, and you turn around when you button up the last part of your shirt.

You can see the wheels turning in his head when you glance at his expression — he looks you up and down as if he were measuring out options, then nods for you to follow him. 

"Whaddya say we find someone to take care of Isaac for a lil while? I can go shoppin', and you can go pick a pocket or two." 

The offer baffles you. Did he honestly just say that? Did he offer you a temporary ticket out of camp? By god, you'd be a fool, an absolute idiot to turn him down. 

Brought to uncertainty by your lack of response, Arthur rushes to add: "Or just help me with gettin' supplies if you ain't feelin' up for that. But you don't gotta say yes to any of this if you don't—..."

It suddenly strikes you that maybe, just maybe, it's not only about a break for you, but also, the fact that he wants your company.

Then again, you shouldn't jump to such quick conclusions. Maybe Arthur Morgan's being nice and you have the audacity to assume it's more — which would put you in a very stupid position. For now, you tell yourself, you'll take what you can get. And that happens to be some time off.

"No, no, I'd love to tag along." You tell Arthur before he bolts out of the tent as a last resort. Awkwardness has a tendency to spook him, and if it can be avoided, he'll absolutely do so. You'd learned that when you first started sleeping in his caravan. "I can go talk to some of the girls, Abigail, maybe. Jack's a heavy sleeper during the day, I'm sure she wouldn't mind watching Isaac for an hour or so."

Arthur returns your smile. "I'll get my horse ready."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me say this in advance: I’m so sorry. Enjoy the chapter!

It sounds endlessly stupid to say it out loud — which is why you don't — but watching the world go by from the back of Arthur's horse is calming. Tranquil.

There's a sense of safety that surrounds you when your knee touches Arthur's while you sit on the crammed wagon seat. You feel like there's bulletproof glass between you and the whole world, like nothing can touch you even if it was hellbent on it.

The horses trot leisurely, Arthur spurs them on with a whip of the reins. There's silence between you, and though neither of you seem to mind it, you'd rather put an end to it. Arthur's taking you into town because he figured you'd be good company, thus, you're not about to disappoint him.

So you speak up.

"Never even realized how much I'd missed the outside world, to be honest."

It takes Arthur a split second longer to answer, he's staring straight ahead thoughtfully before he finally glances sideways at you. You fear you've interrupted one of his internal monologues, perhaps, but he shows no signs of annoyance.

"Camp has a tendency to do that to ya."

How would he know? He's out and about all day, especially with Dutch's new errands. 

But you don't say that. You figure it takes him a leap of faith to show empathy to your situation, especially with the tough facade he seems to like to keep up. You won't dismiss his efforts with some dumb comment.

But he notices, picks up on your expression. Arthur's becoming an expert when it comes to reading you, maybe even too good with his approach. As opposed to you, he's much more stone-faced, and even after roughly two months spent sharing a tent and the care of a child, you need focus and finesse to figure out what exactly is going on inside his head.

"I know it don't sound believable, but I used to spend a lotta time 'round camp. A lotta years back. Dutch 'n Hosea, well..." Arthur glances sideways, at you. He looks like he's recalling something old, but treasured and pleasant. The tiniest of smiles tugs on only one corner of his mouth. "They found me when I was jus' a kid. Fourteen, fifteen, maybe. That's when I used to spend a lotta time 'round camp, learnin' how to read, shoot a gun, n' everythin' else. I remember when I left for the first time in weeks, even the damn general store was interestin'."

You give a honest chuckle, Arthur smiles in return. 

"So it's been...what, fifteen years, now, since they found you?"

Surprised by how quickly you've put it all together, Arthur hides it before it becomes too obvious that he's impressed, and instead nods.

You hum thoughtfully. Fifteen years is...quite something, you now understand where his undying devotion to Dutch stems from. Aside from the subtle manipulation, of course.

But you won't bother with Dutch now. You have some free time, with Arthur, outside camp. Thinking about the gang leader is the last thing you feel like doing.

"And I thought a few months was already something." You lean back in the seat, settle your hands in your lap. The sunlight feels nice on your skin, today's going to be a pleasant day. 

"Depends on how long you's plannin' on stayin'." Arthur answers, then tugs the reins to the side to make a left. The two of you glance at each-other at the same time, your gazes connect. Arthur's the first one to look straight ahead after a few seconds. "I remember when Hosea brought ya to camp for the first time four months ago. You was so scared that y'could barely walk."

And you thought he wasn't easily deceivable. Turns out Arthur Morgan is as susceptible to mercy as the next person. A pleasant surprise.

"That's what I wanted y'all to think." You give a smirk. "I could barely move forward because I had eleven stolen pocket watches hidden under my skirt."

Arthur pulls a face that embodies surprise, you figure he can't hide it now. It makes you oddly proud. 

He looks at you with a grin. "Ain't you full o' surprises?"

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

You suppress a giggle as you hop off the carriage, trotting up to Arthur, who waits beside the horses for you. "Really? He can't swim?"

Arthur smiles, turns to the direction of the general store, nods for you to follow. "I ain't jokin'. Our golden boy was even scared of baths, 'n it was usually me that had to haul him into the river to solve that."

You discover Arthur is a gold mine (as if that hadn't already been obvious). He's one of the founding members of the gang, and thus, he has a wide collection of stories to tell about every single one of the people that have once been or are part of the gang.

The two of you snicker as Arthur stops in front of the store.

"Right, well, pick yer poison. Go shoppin' with me or snatch up a thing or two from the saloon, over that way, then to the left."

Getting back into your old business sounds tempting, thrilling, though spending more time with Arthur isn't an offer you'd turn down either.

You figure you've had your portion of adrenaline for the day since Dutch had woken you up quite unexpectedly. Something more mellow sounds nice.

It's decided, then. You hook your arm around Arthur's, tug him towards the shop.

"I've decided."

He follows you into the shop so eagerly that, in the back of your mind, you think he'd hoped you'd pick this option. 

Arthur takes a slip of paper out of his pocket, unfolds it, then holds it so that you can have a glimpse as well. It's a shopping list, it includes various items such as multiple kinds of canned food and basic medicine.

You and Arthur walk around the small shop, gathering whatever is needed, then return to the counter. As the clerk helps you two pack up all the supplies, he looks back and forth between you and Arthur, and a benevolent smile settles on his face.

"Quite the big family ya got." He remarks with a nod at the amount of groceries. "Must be quite jolly with all them folk runnin' around all day."

Arthur chuckles knowingly. "Most of the time."

"Say, ya got some kids back at home, by any chance?" You and Arthur share the same thought, looking at each-other, then at the cashier. You're the one to confirm it with a nod. The man beams at that. "Good, good! I had some folk come in the other day with this big ol' crate, full o' toys n' children'c clothes. Said they couldn't bear throwin' it all away, and that they don't know no-one that need them. If you wanna take a look at it, it's in the back o' the shop. Every article's jus' one dollar, you won't get that price anywhere else."

You glance at Arthur, he gives a shrug, then smiles encouragingly, as if he were saying 'Go on.'

You mosey towards the back of the shop and he follows, looking over your shoulder once you open the crate. There truly is a little bit of everything that a child could want. Toys, some wooden, some sewn, and an abundance of clothes. 

Arthur's chest grazes your back when he reaches for a stuffed bunny made out of brown material. It stares at you with big, black button-eyes, and has a cute, pink nose made out of a bead.

You glance at Arthur, only to find him already looking at you for an opinion. You can't stifle a smile even if you try. "Cute. And it's just a dollar too."

He hums in response, then sighs. "Too bad his ear's missin'."

You frown and take a closer took at the toy. Arthur's right, only broken stitches remain in the spot where the bunny's left ear should have been.

"Let's look, it's gotta be in there somewhere. I can sew it back on if we find it."

You kneel beside the crate to be able to dig through it more efficiently, Arthur follows your example a few seconds later. You stumble across many clothes, especially for girls, which have no use to you, or more specifically, Isaac. You dig your way through the half of the crate you're searching, and to no avail. 

You hope Arthur's being luckier, but judging by his expression, that's not the case. 

The clerk comes in and lets you know that he's been kind enough to load your groceries into your carriage for you. Arthur's the first one to thank him.

With a disheartened sigh, you turn back towards the crate, and tug a small, blue dress out of your way, until your stomach flips at the feeling of the material under your fingertips.

The lace around the neck of it are oddly familiar, you reel in your hand like it's been burnt.

The small dress looks exactly like the one that belonged to your daughter—

You press your eyes shut, urge yourself to forget what you just saw. It's a damn clothing article. It's silly, so damn stupid and irrational to have such a reaction because of a dress, for chrissakes! Calming down is easier said than done when your brain's not listening to you, it replays the most dreadful moment of your life in your head, over and over again, you find yourself drawing in a stuttered breath as you stand up.

Your chest feels tight, there's a distant stinging inside it, your stomach burns like you've downed far more liquor than you can handle.

Arthur's expression shifts from confused to worried when he looks at you.

"Y'alright, (y/n)?"

"I just—" You swallow down a mouthful of saliva, but the discomfort in your chest and abdomen persists. You turn towards the exit of the shop. "Just need a breath of fresh air, I—"

Arthur moves to stand up as well, but you stumble out of the store before he has a chance to say anything else. There's a railing on the front porch, you wrap your fingers around it, hold onto it for dear life. 

You're fine, this is fine, it was just a dress, one that looked like your daughter's old dress, the dress that had blood smeared on it. Oh god, the blood, all that blood—

You flinch when a hand is placed on your shoulder.

"Hey. I paid for everythin'." It's Arthur's voice. You won't embarrass yourself in front of Arthur, not like this. Why are you breathing like you've just ran a marathon? "You don't look too good."

"Yeah, no, I'm fine. All good." You lie, then tighten your grip around the wooden railing. "Just needed a breath of fresh air, like I said."

It's obvious he doesn't believe a word. Arthur reluctantly smoothes his hand over your back, ushers you towards the carriage when you let go of the railing. 

"C'mon, let's go to the carriage so y'can sit down."

Arthur jumps onto the seat first, then rushes to pull you up beside himself. You're thankful for that. The sound of whipping reins follows, and the carriage starts moving.

You lose track of time, only flinch when droplets of water land on your skin. The carriage is crossing the Lower Montana river.

Your breathing's steadier now, the awful feeling from your torso is fading.

"Feel any better?" Arthur's warm, careful gaze lingers on you when he speaks up, his voice is low and soft, as if he were comforting a spooked animal.

"Yeah. Sorry." You say, straightening your back and taking a deep breath. "Sorry for ruining our trip to town, I didn't mean to do that."

"Ya didn't." Arthur responds, then spurs on the horses. "Just got me a lil' worried 'bout you, is all."

Upon realizing what he'd said, Arthur rolls back his shoulders and clears his throat. "I mean...sine ya looked like you was right 'bout to pass out, back then. Woulda been a bit awkward to ride this thing with a passed out passenger in the back."

You shake your head. "Still, it was silly of me. All because of some damn dr—"

You stop yourself in your sentence before you give too much away. You haven't told anyone the truth about her death.

"That dress, right? The blue one."

Damn him and his observation skills.

You swallow, nod reluctantly.

"I don't wanna pry or anythin', so ya don't gotta answer, but...why?" Arthur scratches the nape of his neck, looks straight ahead. "I mean you was...shaken up. Real shaken up. All because of some dress?"

"I..." You hesitate, but one look at Arthur is enough to make you feel safe again. He awaits a reply like he cares, like you can tell him anything, like he wants to help in whatever way possible. You know that whatever secret you bare to him is in safe hands. "I had a daughter. A few years ago. The day her life ended, she was wearing...exactly that."

The feeling in your chest returns, you tense up, hands balling into fists, teeth clenching.

Silence follows after that. There's a knot in your throat, but you don't give in to the urge to cry your heart out. There's a time and place for that, but that's not here. Not now.

From the corner of your vision, you see Arthur moving in the slightest. His motions are timid, he hesitates for a few good seconds.

But his hand does find yours after all, in spite of his reluctance. Arthur holds it reverently, brushes his thumb over your knuckles.

"What...happened to her? 'F ya don't mind me askin'."

You shake your head no. You don't mind. Not if it's him.

You just need a second.

Even though you're scared to death. For years, you haven't had the courage to say it out loud. There's too much pain that's laced within the five syllables of that word, but now you dare. Five years later, you've gathered the courage to say that awful, awful word.

"Tuberculosis."

Arthur draws in a breath as he tries to think of an appropriate response. "Things like these always happen to those least deservin' of 'em." He pauses, loosens his grip on your hand, but continues the strokes of his thumb once he realizes his consolation is wanted. "I'm real sorry," He says with an air of finality. "I am."

You nod your head.

What you don't tell Arthur about is the look she had in her eyes. How she'd desperately grabbed your hand one evening, fingers skin and bone, and begged through a heave that you make the pain stop. How you held her tiny frame, which had grown even tinier over the last few months, looked at the blood on her blue dress, and realized it was hopeless. How you decided that the most humane thing to do was put her out of her misery, hugging her close one last time as you pressed a pillow over her face and waited.

You don't tell Arthur how much it hurts to have the blood of your own child on your hands, literally and figuratively.


	8. Chapter 8

Arthur's hand lingers between your shoulder blades, thumb traces reluctant, but soothing circles into your back. He's not a man of words, but you appreciate the effort he makes to ease your mind. 

He senses you looking when you glance at him, and meets your gaze with his own, warm and comforting in spite of its cold color. Arthur smiles at you like you matter. Maybe not to him, you tell yourself, but at least you matter objectively. And that's enough for you.

"Can't be long till we get to camp." Arthur says with an air of finality, his touch on your back fades as he retracts his hand. "Wouldn't want Dutch to think w—"

His words get stuck in the middle of his sentence, you feel him tense. Arthur clasps the reins of the carriage in both hands, then frowns as he sniffs the air.

"Smell that?" He asks, and you nod. "A bit like—"

"Burning paper." You say with certainty. "Or cotton."

"Cotton?" Arthur frowns, urges the horses to a halt. He climbs on top of the carriage bench and stares into the distance with a squint. A sharp intake of breath later, Arthur comes to a conclusion you dread to hear, but have a vague idea about. "The tents are burnin'."

Your heart drops. Only figuratively, but it does a stellar job at feeling otherwise. 

"Shit, Isaac."

Arthur drops back down next to you in the blink of an eye, gripping the reins like his life depends on it.

"Hold on tight." He instructs, then whips the reins with enough force to leave the horses neighing in surprise.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

"Arthur, where the hell have ya been?!" Dutch's voice rips through the air like the fireworks you once heard near Saint Denis. If there were cats around, they'd be running for cover — and quite frankly, you would be too, if it weren't for Isaac.

The women are gone, you note, where to, you don't know. The tents have burnt down for the most part, only ashes and some pieces of furniture remain. Corpses of men with worn clothes and greasy hair litter the ground, you'd recognize those rascals from miles away. O'Driscolls.

"What happened?" Arthur shouts as he leaps from the wagon, making his way towards the rest of the gang with big, hurried strides. "Where's Is—"

"Colm goddamn O'Driscoll happened, Arthur! Those bastards have graduated from their neanderthal status and started usin' fire arrows. They set the whole damn camp ablaze!" Dutch answers on a tone that sounds blaming, condescending, like Arthur was the one that gave the O'Driscolls the very idea. "And you were out shoppin'!"

Arthur does a stellar job at ignoring whatever Dutch is throwing at him, he has more pressing matters. You wholly agree with his priorities. "Where's—"

"Quit moanin' about progeny o' yours, he's with Abigail and the other women, hidin' near Armadillo." Dutch clasps his hand over Arthur's shoulder, grips it tight, then pushes him towards the rest of the men that scout the remnants of camp. "Go 'n help the others, see what can be saved."

Arthur nods, trots over to the rest to do as he's asked.

What you don't expect is Dutch calling for you.

Without even wanting to, you jump to your feet like a soldier, ready to execute any order thrown at you. Perhaps that's the reason Dutch not only is, but also remains the leader after all — his voice, stance, his very demeanor demands respect.

"You can sew." He says matter-of-factly, then motions for you to follow him. "Edward needs a wound closed."

You're more than glad to lend a hand where possible. You don't know Edward all that well, he's joined the gang maybe a month ago, but you remember him asking to hold Isaac once, and confessing that he'd had a little brother back in Yorkshire, and that he'd carry him around all the time when he was not older than fifteen and his brother a toddler. He'd told you his dream was to earn enough money to be able to finance a journey for his mother and sibling to travel to America, for all of them to lead a better life here.

Foolish dream, you remember thinking. Robbing and stealing will barely get your wallet full enough to afford food twice a day, much less bring over two people all the way from England.

But you didn't say that. Hope is the only fuel that exists for one's morale, and you were not about to deprive a kid that had barely turned nineteen of his vigor.

What you didn't expect to see when you looked down at Javier, who was kneeling next to a fallen body, was for that fallen body to be said youthful, vigorous, nineteen year old kid.

A huge gash disfigured Edward's chest, flesh ripped open diagonally, all the way from his clavicle to his ribs. Javier had taken the kid's shirt off, and used it to desperately stop the bleeding, to no avail.

A metal box is pressed into your hands, you're told it's what's been salvaged from Miss Grimshaw's sewing supplies. 

Without another word, you drop to your knees, and feel the blood on the ground already start to soak through your dress. Your hands tremble, but you urge them back to steadiness successfully after a deep breath. 

"He saved us, poor niño." Javier tells you as he watches your fingers deftly work to sew the boy's skin back together. "Ran straight towards the O'Driscolls with his rifle. One of the bastards had a machete."

You don't stop until your hands are gloved in blood up to the middle of your forearm, but the bleeding doesn't cease. It seeps through the stitches when Edward stumbles back into consciousness for mere seconds, and all he can do is cough, red bubbling out of his mouth, pouring down his chin and neck.

Once you knot the thread into place, Javier hands you Edward's already blood-soaked shirt, which you press over the closed gash.

The dark red color spreads, you're powerless to stop it, your stitch is powerless to stop it, you rinse his skin with some whiskey from your and Arthur's wagon of supplies as a last resort.

Edward wakes up just enough to scream out in pain, then passes out once again just seconds later. His face is pale, hair sticks to his forehead with a mixture of sweat and blood.

"Shit." You whisper. You apply more pressure on top of his wound, to no avail. "He's dying, goddamnit!"

And he is. You see his death coming from miles away, and yet it shakes you to your core. You don't know for how long you remain kneeling beside the boy's corpse, staring at the wound in disbelief, your palm set atop his heart, waiting for a beat below your fingertips.

Nothing.

When you're gingerly hoisted back to your feet, and you hear Arthur speak to you, the world starts to make sense again.

"It's alright." He says, gently, so low that you can barely hear him, the others even less so. "You tried."

Your breath trembles, but your voice doesn't. "Wish I could have—"

"Ain't anything you coulda done. Javier said so too." Arthur hands you a handkerchief to wipe the blood off of you. As if you could — it's dry now, and flaky, stuck in your cuticles, under your nails, in the lines on the palm of your hand. 

Arthur's holding something in his left hand — a picture of a woman that slightly resembles him. You don't get a chance to have a closer look at it, he stuffs it into his satchel, then takes out a bottle of water. Arthur makes you stretch out your arms, then starts pouring water over your hands to rinse off the blood. "Trust me, there'll be many more like him, people that pop up at camp and then die in ways they don't deserve."

You watch as Bill Williamson lifts up Edward's corpse like it weighs nothing and takes it to one of the wagons. Presumably to give him a burial sometime within the next few days.

You nod. Arthur's right, death is not a rare sight. You don't know why Edward's shakes you up to this extent, but you blame it on the entire day. First Dutch waking you up, then the dress, now this.

You walk alongside Arthur back to your carriage of supplies. Some of the men hop inside the back of the wagon, shoving aside and piling up the groceries to make enough space for themselves.

"Let's pick up the others in Armadillo and get the hell away from here." Arthur speaks up, them whips the reins.


	9. Chapter 9

It doesn't take the gang more than two weeks to get back on its feet. You're certain it has something to do with the stash of money Dutch keeps somewhere, in spite of the fact that it's supposed to belong to all gang members, but you're not about to complain. Especially if it's being spent in everyone's favor.

Where there's money, there's people, attracted like pigeons to crumbs of bread. Charlatans, rascals, and even some decent men show up, then make a leave as quickly as they appear — more often by death than desertion.

Faces and names seep into your memory like water in the dry, cracked earth of the desert, and you fail to tell them apart in a few months time. There are many, many more unfortunate souls like Edward's to come, and you finally understand that goodbyes never get easier. Becoming more ignorant is the only cure to heartache.

Arthur grows to be more and more important to you, sometimes it feels like he's the only thing still holding you down — especially when the dread and pain of the life that's picked you (more than the other way around) seems unending. Arthur's always there to pick up the pieces — and in return, so are you.

It's almost a secret, and Arthur's caravan, or more precisely, the cot you begin to share, is where you keep it. It's not impure or sexual by any means, but still a private affair made up of whispers and utterances, of consolation and and kindness. Behind leather flaps, you find comfort in each-other's gentle words. Your friendship morphs into a symbiosis between two people which have been broken. Arthur cares, maybe not about you, but about making himself useful — so you often find yourself either telling or listening to an anecdote or a life lesson. It heals your souls in ways you can't hope to explain.

Outside his caravan everything returns to what everyone thinks you are. Not close friends, not each-other's crutches in an unforgiving world, your relationship with Arthur returns to the one of an arrangement's born out of kindness. And it's better that way.

You'd rather not have Dutch or anyone else breathing down your neck every minute of the day because they know you and Arthur spend hours on end discussing everything ranging from Sean MacGuire's drunken escapades to your deepest, darkest fears. 

It's a situation you find yourself quite comfortable in, after all.

One of the conclusions you and Arthur come to on a quiet summer night sticks with you, perhaps because it speaks the truth so concisely yet lacks intricacy.

There's two kinds of people that join the gang.

The ones which you hope death will have the gentlest of grips on, and the ones it can't take soon enough.

Micah Bell is the latter.

Isaac is roughly four years old when that excuse for a man joins the gang, and from the first day, the feeling in your gut decides you do not like him one bit. Arthur shares that sentiment. 

You see through Micah Bell like through autumn morning fog. Not with clarity by any means, but one thing you know for sure: Dutch's manipulation looks like nothing but good intentions compared to what Bell is capable of. From the moment he makes his appearance, Micah scopes out who and what is important (which would be Dutch van der Linde, and, of course, money), then wins it over.

He has many methods, but sweet talk and diving headfirst into danger to prove himself appear to be his favorite methods. 

You wouldn't really mind if they turned out to be fruitless, but unfortunately, humans in general and Dutch especially thrive on approval and praise.

The conversations around camp all start to gravitate around a new point of interest, which is a huge heist Dutch has come up with. It's dangerous, Arthur, Hosea and a few others say that it is even too much so, and suggest sticking to smaller, safer schemes.

Unfortunately, the gang leader is easily bewitched by grandeur. Micah insists on going through with the heist, even manages to convince a few others to join him with his opinion. It's not settled democratically (but even if it were, you fear the outcome would have been the exact same). 

They're going through with it.

In all honesty, you'd seen it all coming. Going to jail, getting hung, or maybe having to sell your body to stay afloat and provide for yourself and Isaac if his father were to die, and many other things you'd dreaded to discuss with Arthur the night before the heist.

But honest to God, you wouldn't have guessed you'd end up on a mountain in the middle of nowhere. Not even in a hundred years.

Even inside the wagon, you feel the wind and snow whip your skin. Your face, hands and feet are numb. You can hear Isaac's teeth clattering, and hugging him even closer doesn't help his state. Clothes are rendered redundant by the Ambarino cold, you and the other women cling to each-other's bodily warmth like it's made of gold. Davey lays at your feet, bundled up in all the blankets you could find. He's been shot, but not left behind. Unlike Sean, Mac and Jenny. You catch yourself wanting to use Davey's blankets for yourself and Isaac — the poor man is as good as dead anyways. But you're not that heartless. 

Just maybe, there's a slim chance he'll make it. You're not about to ruin that for greed.

"I'm cold." Isaac whispers through gritted teeth, giving your sleeve a tug. His voice is meek, even more so than usually. He's a quiet boy, has stayed that way ever since he was in the crib. But whispering is a bad sign, even for him.

"I know." You say, then unroll the shawl around your shoulders to place it over his head. The cold bites at your skin immediately, but you ignore it. Isaac needs warmth more than you do. "Better?"

He gives a reluctant nod, leans his head against your side. 

Abigail whispers something to the reverend, Swanson nods. "I'll go tell Dutch." He concludes, then jumps out of the wagon. It's surprising how much he can pick up his act if needed, it leaves you wondering why he avoids doing it for the most part.

But that doesn't natter now. The gang needs all the help and human resources it can get, and if the reverend does his share, that's more than just a welcome change.

You hear Dutch say something in response, but none of his words catch your attention. Not until he calls out Arthur's name.

"Arthur! Any luck?"

"I found a place where we can get some shelter." You can't even see him from inside the wagon, but his voice offers a feeling of safety, even if it's momentary. You've missed his voice, it's enough to warm you up like a bonfire in the middle of the snowstorm. "Let Davey rest while he..." Arthur stops, seems to shy away from using any words that could deprive the others from their already scarce hope. "You know. An old mining town, abandoned. It ain't far. Come on."

Finally, some good news.

Maybe, just maybe, this'll all turn out alright.


	10. Chapter 10

As welcoming and cozy as the name Colter makes the abandoned town out to be, it's anything but. 

The buildings are shabby at best, but, practically being a surrogate mother to who just so happens to be the son of the second most important man in the gang comes with a privilege or two. You, Arthur and Isaac get your own room — albeit cramped — but with mostly intact walls and even a fireplace.

After Dutch holds his mandatory speech and announces that he and Arthur leave in search for Micah and John, you help set up the bare necessities around the temporary camp. For dinner, you and Tilly are tasked with handing out canned or dried goods for everyone to eat. You note that Dutch and (more importantly) Arthur are still missing.

With that in mind, you seek out as many gang members as you can, take the time to lend a helping hand if needed. You fear that spending your time assessing your situation would only turn you more cynical — keeping busy is the best cure for overthinking. And, aside from that, you also get to make yourself useful. A win-win situation.

Isaac falls asleep quicker than a light that's being switched off, and you can't claim you're doing much better either by the time you get to the room you share with him and Arthur.

His father's still nowhere to be seen, which means bad news for you. Sleep hardly ever comes to you if Arthur's not around. You suppose it's out of habit. Of course it can be cured with warm tea and a book you've already familiarized yourself with a dozen times before, but...you find that his presence is much more efficient when it comes to making you feel at ease.

"Is he back yet?" 

A benevolent smile tugs on your lips when you hear Isaac's voice from the other corner of the room. Being a light sleeper runs in the family.

"Arthur?" You ask as you trot over to the boy's cot. Isaac is snuggled up in a blanket that's far too big for his size — he's pulled it all the way up to his nose so that only his eyes peek out. The end is tucked under his legs, reaching the back of his knees. He gives one soft nod. "Not yet. He's out looking for John and Micah."

The cot creaks when you move to sit down next to Isaac's tiny form. He cuddles up against you in a way that's familiar, and you set your hand atop his head. Brushing his shaggy, untamable locks into shape is objectively speaking pointless, but you do it anyways because the way he closes his big blue eyes and smiles dreamily makes you feel warmer than any wool blanket ever could.

"I hope he finds John." Isaac tells you after a few seconds of silence, and then he yawns. "Jack's been real sad 'cuz his pa's gone."

"John's got his flaws, but yeah. I hope he finds him too." You brush one strand from his face, then adjust the blanket around him properly. 

"And I hope papa finds Jenny. And Mac, and Sean." Isaac pauses, frowns in thought until his nose crinkles in the slightest. "Micah can stay where he is though."

You chuckle, then nod in agreement. "Definitely." He looks at you like he can't quite understand what's so humorous about what he's just said — something Isaac does quite often. When around you, or anyone he truly trusts, he speaks his mind without any inhibition, which often results in hilariously honest comments from him.

Silence ensues, and you twist one of his locks of hair around your index. They're getting quite long, you should give him a trim again sometime soon, you think.

Isaac closes his eyes after you tell him to try to get more sleep. You sit beside him, playing with his hair until his breathing starts to grow shallow and slows.

Just as you get up, you hear his voice whisper yet again.

"We should bury Davey with a blanket." Isaac states out of nowhere, peeking at you with only one eye because he knows he's supposed to be asleep. 

You raise a brow, lean your side against one of the wooden walls. It creaks. "What do you mean?"

"Because in New Austin it's real warm. Everyone we buried there isn't gonna get cold, but Davey's gonna need a blanket to stay warm 'round here."

Smiling widely, you tiptoe back to the bedside, floor creaking below you when you move to kneel beside the cot.

"That's very sweet of you, Isaac. But Davey won't feel a thing, trust me."

He frowns, looks at you with both eyes open and curious. 

He's very much like his father in that aspect as well — gifted with an insatiable thirst for knowledge and a place to keep it all too. How could you deny him information if he so deeply craves to find out more?

"Can I give him my old blanket?" He asks. "Just in case."

You cup his face gently, then nod. Isaac smiles and hugs your arm, and from there it doesn't take much longer until his eyes flutter shut and his hold on you loosens.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

The cold is relentless, some snowflakes even pierce through the walls, and the howling wind makes you think fondly of Dutch's gramophone. It's well past midnight when the door creaks open and a tall figure slithers inside. 

In spite of how tired he is, Arthur's still light on his feet. The lengths he'll go to avoid bothering the ones he cares about still surprise you — hell, if you'd been treading through waist-high snow for the past four hours at the very least, not making any noise would be the last of your concerns. You'd dive straight for the bed.

He stops beside Isaac's bed, reaches for one of the boy's hands. They must've been cold, you think, because the next thing you know Arthur is taking off his coat and placing it on top of Isaac's blanket.

"Hey." You whisper and he looks your way with guilt because you're awake, but his expression softens when he sees yours.

He reaches out to you when he's beside the cot, palm facing up, and you place your hand in his, squeezing. It's a tradition of sorts by now, your way of wordlessly saying hello when there's no prying eyes around.

Arthur's warm, in spite of being out in the cold for so long, which is a pleasant surprise. He'd always been impossibly warm even in New Austin, but now it's finally put to good use.

"Get in here, it's freezing." You tell him and he nods.

Arthur slips his hand out of your loose hold in the favor of undoing his gun-belt and kicking off his boots. He smells like sweat, crisp winter air, but most redolently of gunpowder, still fresh and vivid.

As always, he lays down across from you, on his side, facing your way. He looks sad, shaken up, almost, so you shift a little closer and speak up.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah. Jus'...been a long day. Found some poor woman in a house up north, Sadie Adler." Arthur closes his eyes, sighs. "O'Driscolls killed her husband."

"Did you and Dutch—"

Arthur nods. "Yeah, she's safe now. With Grimshaw n' the girls."

You let go of a breath you didn't even realize you were holding in. "I'll check in on her tomorrow. Losing your husband—" You frown. "That's...that's a lot to take in."

Arthur hums in thought, then tugs his blanket upwards, up to his chin.

"Did I wake you?" He asks. "When I came in."

"Was already awake." You answer and smile with only one corner of your mouth. Arthur has no idea how much his presence improves your sleep — when he arrived late at night, you often pretended you'd already been dozing off. "Isaac was starting to get worried."

Arthur looks over your shoulder, at Isaac's sleeping form, and smiles in a bittersweet way. A few seconds pass before his gaze drifts back to you.

"Wish I could stick around more often." He confesses. Arthur falls silent, moves to lay on his back and stares up at the ceiling. "Sometimes I—"

Arthur scoffs at himself, shakes his head when he finds you looking at him intently. 

"Sometimes you what?" You ask.

"Nothin'." Arthur answers. "'S foolish."

"I bet I've told you much more foolish things at one point or another." You smile in encouragement, and Arthur's frown melts into something softer at the sight.

"Nothin' beats the story of you gettin’ drunk for the first time and thinkin' a raccoon was a breed of cat—"

"Shush!" You whisper and lightly slap his shoulder. "You said you wouldn't bring it up if I told you."

Arthur tries to tame his quiet laughter with a deep breath, raises his palms in mock surrender. "A'ight, sorry."

"Apology accepted." You whisper, then nod at him. "Now c'mon."

He stops, looks down at his hands as if to gather his thoughts. You suppose you’ll never get to the point where Arthur speaks freely and without inhibitions, self-consciousness has been instilled into him from a very young age.

"I just...when I saw that woman's house, I...I thought how that'd be nice someday." Under your patient, warm glance, he feels understood and at peace. Even though you're surrounded by shabby walls and in the middle of a snowstorm, he feels a strange sense of homeliness. "For Isaac, me, n’ you…if you’d ever want to, I mean."

You're silent. It's not like you don't have anything to say, quite the opposite. To say you're moved by what he's just told you (admittedly a bit clumsily) is an understatement. 

"Not this far up north, o'course, but...you get my meanin'." He pauses, trying to make something of your expression. Before you can hope to add something, Arthur shrugs."But, like I said, 's just a foolish thought. I don’t…I don’t know ‘f I’m ever gonna deserve somethin’ like that. Or ‘f I’m ever gonna be able to afford it. N’ then there’s Dutch, Hosea, the whole gang…"

You nod, reach for one of his hands, trail your fingertips over the palm of his hand. There's blood under his fingernails, or dirt. You hope it's the latter, but the other part of you knows better. "It's still a nice thought." You say softly.

"Yeah." Arthur smiles. "A real nice one."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am SO sorry this took so long. School is really hating me right now. Thank you lots for your patience!


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have this short-ish chapter because I've been brimming with inspiration for my other Arthur fic called 'Silver Bullet' and...accidentally forgot to update this one. Whoops.

Staying busy is also the best way of staying warm. Perhaps that's the main reason you won't dream about complaining when Pearson asks you to fetch a few supplies from one of the wagons on the other side of camp.

You'd woken up to an empty bed, even though it had been quite early. Isaac was (hopefully) still resting, and Arthur...well, you had no idea where he was, but that was nothing new as of late.

Not that it was his fault. Hell, you suspect that if he could sell his soul to spend even a week just with you and Isaac, unbothered by anything or anyone, he would. But an outlaw's life doesn't work that way.

Still in thought, you pass by one of the cabins and see a light flickering inside. Abigail's talking to someone — Arthur, you realize — and asking him to go look for John.

He hesitates at first, replies with something coarse. Subconsciously, you begin looking for a place to leave the canned corn so that you can go in there yourself and knock some sense into him. A few seconds pass before you realize there's no need for it. Arthur's snarky when he is tired, very much so, but his soul is far from rotten. If he can help, he will. Javier volunteers as well, they come to an agreement, Abigail thanks them sincerely.

Arthur exits alongside Javier seconds later, and he lets him walk ahead, as if he can feel your presence without even catching sight of you. While the Mexican is already making for the horses, Arthur's glance finds you, a few meters away, almost like it's second nature to him. You smile, which serves as a silent approval to his decision, and encouragement. He nods once, returns a sincere smile of his own.

There's no need for any other words, it's all been conveyed through a mere connection of glances.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Colter's much prettier doing the day, that's for sure. Still cold, of course, but even a godforsaken place like this has its charms. The pearly white reflects the noon sun, everything looks like it's been made out of the smallest diamonds known to man.

The snow reminds you of your childhood, of snow angels and Christmas trees and sweets your father went into town to buy for you. 

That is when you realize Isaac has never had that. It hits you quite suddenly that he'll never have a normal childhood to look back on. No Christmas trees, no sitting by a furnace, no place to call a home. All he has is campfires,  distant gunshots and criminals. Criminals with hearts of gold (most of them) and morals, but criminals nonetheless.

Unless something magically changes within the next few years, Isaac is doomed to an abnormal childhood. Which is, as much as you like to dream, still the likeliest possibility.

How hard you'd tried, first with your daughter, to give her everything you never had. Isaac has the advantage of having a father, at the very least, which was something your little girl never had the chance to experience.

Maybe Isaac would never have what could be regarded as a normal childhood, but he has Arthur. He has you.

You hear laughter behind you before something cold hits the back of your neck. Snow, you realize as it starts to seep into the back of your shawl, it's snow.

The laughter dies out, shifts into horrified silence as you turn on your heels and look behind yourself.

Jack looks at you with big, scared eyes, and Isaac isn't doing much better either. He has placed both his red, presumably freezing hands over his mouth as he looks back and forth between you and his friend. You raise a brow, try to figure out wether you should scold them or laugh at their mortified expressions.

"We're real sorry!" Isaac blurts before you can say something, quick to jump to his friend's defense. "Jack didn't mean— he was trying to hit me with the snowball, but his aim's real bad so—"

"Hey!" Jack gives Isaac's shoulder an accusing shove.

These two, you swear to god. Trouble seems to somehow seek them out a bit too often, but you'll be damned if they can't scrape any grey sky clean.

"Alright, boys." You call out for them again when they seem to ignore you and continue bickering under their breaths. "Boys! C'mere. Both of you."

They comply quickly once your tone changes, come up to you with guilt clearly written on their expression. Isaac kneads his hands, as restless as his father, while Jack just averts his gaze.

Their coats are covered in snow, especially on the back, and their boots must be soaked through by now.

"Look at you, soaked to the skin." You pause as they both cast their eyes downwards in shame. "Me and Abigail wanted you to stay inside for a reason."

"We were bored." Jack tells you timidly, grinding the sole of his small boot against the snow as he talks. 

"And we never had snow at the old camp!" Isaac adds. "We couldn't just sit inside and watch!"

You can't suppress an amused huff, so you just look to the side to conceal the smile on your lips. "So you decided to have a snowball fight?"

"Not only! We also made snow angels." 

Which explains the snow on their backs, you think.

When Isaac catches sight of your amused expression, he cracks a smile that lacks one of his front teeth. You're reminded of how he'd come running to you and Arthur one evening a few months ago, clutching his mouth and scared that he was dying, when it reality his tooth had just fallen out. It's impossible to bite back your grin now. "Oh, and Jack ate some snow! But it ain't sweet like we thought."

"You promised you wouldn't tell!" Jack seems genuinely upset as he looks at Isaac first, then at you. He crosses his small arms, drops his chin into his chest as he starts to talk. "Now momma won't let me go outside ever again."

You step towards him, crouch down to his level. "I'll make you boys an offer. How 'bout you two go inside, change your clothes real quick so that you don't catch a cold. And in exchange—" You bring your index to your lips. "I won't tell Abi a thing."

Jack looks at you in disbelief. "You'd do that?"

"Just this once." You gesture for the both of them to go towards the cabins, Isaac is quick to go first.

"(Y/n)'s real nice!" You hear Jack say as he catches up with his friend. Isaac beams.

"Of course she is! That's why pa likes her so much."

You're left behind standing in the snow, grin still wide on your face. Your chest feels much warmer than the cold weather would normally allow it.


	12. Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An explanation regarding the lack of updates for the past two months.

I‘m sure most of you have noticed I’ve practically vanished off the surface of the internet, or, more specifically, the red dead fandom for quite a while. I want to apologize for leaving so suddenly, especially because amazing, avid and just all-around wonderful readers such as you all are don’t deserve to be left hanging like this. Thank you endlessly for you patience and for the fact that you still care enough — about me, and my work — to read this note.

Here’s why I have vanished so suddenly: my life has changed drastically. Thankfully not negatively, but for the better. I won’t go into too much detail, but to keep it brief: I’ve fallen head over heels for someone who also feels the same. 

Thus, my attention hasn’t exactly been directed at the red dead fandom anymore. Don’t get me wrong, I still hold the characters (Arthur especially) dear, but not as much as I used to. I didn’t lose passion for writing per se (I’ve been brimming with ideas for an original story I’ve been working on for years) but rather for red dead. I think it’s only fair to give you all the context you deserve.

My final decision? I will discontinue all my ongoing red dead works, save for “Silver Bullet”, simply because I already have an entire storyline planned out for it and still feel excited about writing it. Unfortunately, that excitement just isn’t there anymore when it comes to “Anything, anyone” or “Eleutheria”. I’m sorry for letting you all down, and I hope you can understand that I’d rather discontinue a work than churn out content that doesn’t make me and my readers happy. 

As always, thank you lots for reading♥️


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